


twenty three

by salazarsslytherin (dust_ice_fire)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, derek is a lurker, scott isn't really sure how this is his life, stiles is drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_ice_fire/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I mean,” Stiles continues, “on a scale of one to ten, he’s gotta be at least a twelve.  A</i> twelve<i>, Scott, do you know how rare twelves are?”</i></p><p>Or, The One Where Stiles Gets Drunk And Talks About Derek A Lot (And Derek Overhears)</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty three

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I was making a [gifset](http://salazarsslytherin.tumblr.com/post/99845849555/read-on-ao3-the-one-where-stiles-gets-drunk-and) and I started writing out some dialogue so I could figure out what to caption them with, and then this happened.

"Do you think Derek's hot? In a like, totally hypothetical way. Like in a world where he wasn't _Derek_ , and he just had his face, and his shoulders and his legs and his _hands_ , you know? Would you think he's hot?"

"Sure, Stiles," Scott replies, staring at the flames of their little bonfire. "Derek is totally, hypothetically hot."

"Right," Stiles agrees. "In a completely hypothetical way. Because obviously he's not hot in our life. In real life. That would be weird."

"Whatever you say, Stiles," Scott humours him, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position on the rock he's sat on.

"Is it weird, though?" Stiles asks after a moment. "I mean, even in a not hypothetical way, I guess he's kind of hot. Right?"

"Right."

"He's totally hot," Stiles decides, lurching to the side to grab the bottle of whiskey and take another gulp. "It's unfair. Where does he even buy his jackets, anyway? It's like he _knows_ how good they make him look so he stocked up at the Jacket Store For Ridiculously Hot, Angry Werewolves and now he has an entire closet of them so he can wear one every day."

"Probably." Scott has found that when Stiles begins monologuing like this it's far easier to simply agree with him than it is to actually try and hold a conversation. Besides, it's usually kind of hilarious and pretty adorable, especially when the conversation turns to Derek (as it often does).

"I mean," Stiles continues, "on a scale of one to ten, he's gotta be at least a twelve. A _twelve_ , Scott, do you know how rare twelves are?"

"Really rare?"

" _Right_. Derek's a twelve and I'm like, a four. On a good day. And if I didn't have my own car I'd be more like a two."

"So because I don't have a car I get two less points?" Scott pouts, giving Stiles his very best puppy-dog eyes.

"No, Scott, that's not how it works. Even with your bike you're like, a solid eight, man. I'd give you a ten but you don't have a leather jacket and also I'm not even sure if your face knows how to scowl."

"Derek scowls a lot," Scott points out, because he's sure Stiles is looking for a way to bring this conversation back around to Derek, but he's already slurring quite a bit and probably can't think of one off the top of his head.

" _Right_? It's like he can't even look at me without glaring. He hates me and I haven't even done anything to _earn_ it. That's not fair, y'know? I mean, if someone's gonna hate me, I want to earn that hatred, do something to really make it worth it, right? But Derek didn't even give me a chance he just straight up hated me." Stiles lets out a long-suffering sigh, letting his head thunk down against the hard ground, tapping out an erratic beat against the edge of the bottle beside him.

"I don't think Derek hates you, Stiles," Scott says patiently.

"He totally does. _God_." Stiles glares up at the stars. "It's so annoying. I hate _him_ , Scott. I hate him so much. I hate his stupid face and his stupid scowl and his stupid way of knowing _everything_ and his stupid smug smile and-"

"Stiles?" Scott interrupts.

"Yeah?"

"I don't think you hate Derek."

"What?" Stiles splutters. "Of course I do."

"I think you like him."

" _What_? No way, man. He's hot, sure, but I mean, I don't, I wouldn't…it's _Derek_. He _hates_ me!" Stiles makes a concerted effort to roll onto his side, all the better to point accusingly at Scott, but he gives up halfway there and settles for taking another swig from the bottle instead.

"Uh huh," Scott hums, smiling knowingly.

"And even if he didn't, which he does, I'm a four, Scott. A _four_. Derek's a twelve. Twelves don't date fours. Twelves like, _look_ at fours and fours feel grateful. I bet Derek only dates like, giant guys with loads of muscles and leather jackets and scowls that match so they can just scowl at each other all day."

"You have a pretty good scowl, Stiles," Scott tells him, because it's kind of his duty as best friend to let Stiles know these things when he's worried about them.

"But like, I bet he likes guys that turn into _bears_ or something. A were-bear," Stiles adds, waving a dismissive hand through the air.

"A were-bear?" Scott repeats and he can't help the slight snigger of amusement that escapes his lips.

"Shut up, this isn't funny," Stiles insists, tipping the bottle against his lips and drinking deeply before continuing. "I bet that's a thing. Derek's a wolf so he'd need a bear. Werewolves and were-bears would obviously make great couples."

"I don't think that's in the bestiary."

" _Well_ …it should be," Stiles counters lamely. "It's beside the point, anyway. The point is that I'm a human, and a four, and Derek is a totally hot twelve and he's a werewolf. Like, there's just no overlap there."

"If you say so."

"Plus, he hates me."

"And you hate him."

"Right. I totally, totally hate him."

There is a poignant pause during which Stiles looks glassy-eyed at the sky overhead and Scott waits, counting down in his head until the moment of realisation. _Three_ _…_ _two_ _…_ _one_ _…_

Stiles sits bolt upright. "Except I don't. I really don't. _Scott_. Oh my God I don't hate him at all." He flops defeatedly back to the ground, expression twisted in horrified comprehension. "I _like_ him. Like, I really _really_ like him. Oh my God Scott why didn't you _tell_ me? The things I'd let him _do_ to me, I swear, it's like I've never even seen in a porno."

"O _kay_ , Stiles, I think you've had enough now," Scott cuts him off, waving his hands as though he can erase Stiles' words from the past few seconds. "I'm glad you finally realised you like Derek but please can we _not_ do a fantasy play-by-play? I'm not sure our friendship could survive that."

"Doesn't matter anyway," Stiles says glumly. "He hates me, Scott. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Stiles," Scott says firmly. "I really, honestly don't think he hates you."

"He does," Stiles argues. "I can _feel_ it. He hates me because I'm just a human and I'm not a were-bear and even if I _was_ a were-bear I'd probably only be bumped up to like, a six, and Derek's still a twelve and he'd still hate me."

"I don't hate you."

Stiles sits up so fast he has to dig his fingers into the ground to keep from pitching forward as dizziness overcomes him.

Scott gapes for a moment. "Uh, Derek…hi?"

"Oh my God. What are you _doing_ here?" Stiles demands, eyes flickering in Derek's general direction before immediately skittering away, determined to look anywhere but at the werewolf.

"Taking a walk. What are _you_ doing here? Are you _drunk_?"

" _No_."

"He's drunk," Scott supplies, getting to his feet and glancing awkwardly between Stiles and Derek. "We uh, we should probably go. Sorry for interrupting your walk."

Derek shrugs. "You weren't interrupting mu- _careful_ ," he hisses, crouching to grasp Stiles' shoulders and heave him to his feet when it looks like he's about to fall over in his own attempts.

"Thanks," Stiles mumbles, flushing beet red even in the orange glow of the fire. "We should _go_." He takes a step towards Scott and nearly hits the deck once again, only stopped by Derek's hand on his shoulder.

"I don't really think you're capable of _going_ anywhere," Derek points out, shooting an accusatory look at Scott, who splays his hands in a helpless gesture.

"I wasn't sure how much was too much!" he protests.

" _This_ ," Derek says, pointing at Stiles. "This is too much."

"Hey! I'm _fine_ ," Stiles insists, clumsily patting Derek on the chest before he snatches his hand away as he realises what he's doing.

"I'm driving you home," Derek says firmly, his tone silencing any protests before they can even be thought of. He slings an arm around Stiles' waist and jerks his head at Scott to support him on the other side.

Stiles' legs don't really seem to want to cooperate but between the three of them they manage to fall into a rhythm that gets them walking. After a few paces, Stiles leans so far towards Scott that he almost drags them all down.

"Hey, did you see?" he asks in a whisper that is actually not even remotely a whisper and could probably be heard from several feet away, particularly if one happened to be a werewolf and therefore had superhuman hearing. "There was a moment then when he wasn't scowling! He might be a fourteen, Scott. A _fourteen._ "

If anyone notices Derek's cheeks burning, they don't mention it, and if Scott hears his heart trip over a beat or three, he pretends not to.

They manage to make it to Derek's car without incident and between both he and Scott, they manage to bundle Stiles into the back and get him buckled in. Scott slides into the passenger seat and casts a furtive look at Derek, who very deliberately does not look at him as he starts the engine and pulls away.

"So, uh…how much did you hear?" Scott asks tentatively, after he casts a glance into the back and realises that Stiles has slumped against the seats and fallen asleep.

"Some," Derek replies casually, but his fingers are a lot tighter than is strictly necessary on the steering wheel.

"Meaning…?" Scott prompts, drawing the syllables out.

Derek lifts one shoulder. " _Meaning_ ," he says, "I heard _some_. Not a lot. But some. Enough, I guess. I uh, I don't - I mean, it's not…I don't hate Stiles." He says this all in a rush, as though if he says it fast enough it will change the meaning he knows is behind it. He absolutely _doesn_ _'_ _t_ hate Stiles and he's surprisingly hurt to learn that Stiles thinks he does.

"That's…good," Scott nods, pleased. "I tried to tell him that."

"No, I mean…I _really_ don't hate Stiles."

The thing about Scott, though, is that while he's probably the nicest person on the planet, he's not the sharpest tack in the box, especially when it comes to picking up hints.

"Okay, good," he repeats. "I didn't think you did."

Derek lets out a sigh that sounds a little bit more growly than he meant for it to and Scott shoots him a worried glance. "I don't hate Stiles," Derek says, very deliberately. "And I don't want him to think I hate him. Because I don't."

"Right, well, I'll tell him," Scott assures him, reaching out to pat him consolingly on the shoulder, because it seems a little bit like Derek needs it. What Derek _needs_ is some kind of Emotions Translator who can explain to Scott all the stuff Derek thinks he probably _should_ say but really _can_ _'_ _t_.

He opens his mouth to try again but before he's really thought up any words to use he's arrived at Scott's street and they come to a halt.

Scott moves to get out of the car before he pauses and looks back. "Uh, do you want a hand with him?" he asks, eyes on Stiles. "I should come back with you."

"It's fine," Derek says, because Scott looks tired and he's also kind of hoping that Stiles will wake up on the short ride to his house and…he's not sure what, after that. Something. "I can manage."

"Okay, well, Stiles left through his window and his dad doesn't know he came out, so you'll need to be really quiet," Scott informs him, casting a quick glance up to the windows of his own house to make sure his mom hasn't noticed them outside. "His bedroom's-"

"I know where his bedroom is," Derek nods, and Scott gapes at him for a moment. Derek flushes. "I went to see him, once! I needed him to look something up, it's not- it wasn't- it wasn't like…look, it's fine, I'll get him home, you just go inside. I'll see you tomorrow."

The look Scott gives him is more calculating than Derek would have expected to see on the younger werewolf's face, but he pushes the door closed with a quiet snap without another word and offers a quick wave before heading to his front door.

Derek checks in his mirror to make sure Stiles is still asleep before he pulls away, driving along the few short roads between the two houses. Stiles doesn't wake up until they've stopped and Derek's leaning over him to unbuckle his seatbelt, gently coaxing him upright and trying not to make any noise; a few porch lights had come on when he drove by and he's more than a little nervous about Stiles' neighbours peering out to see what the fuss is. He's especially nervous about the Sheriff doing the same seeing as Derek's got his drunk son in his arms and it's way past Stiles' curfew and, y'know, he's the _Sheriff_. He has a gun.

"Derek?" Stiles mumbles, blinking blearily up at him and flailing a little as Derek pulls him out of the car.

"Yeah," Derek confirms quietly. "Be quiet, okay? I'm gonna take you inside but we can't make any noise. Your dad's asleep."

Stiles stares at him for a moment before he blinks again, squinting a little. "God, you're definitely a fourteen," he sighs to himself, making a valiant effort to stand on his own and not sway on the spot.

Derek clicks the door shut and puts his arm back around Stiles' waist, trying hard not to think about the way Stiles leans into him without hesitation, or the way he smells, or the way his long fingers wrap around Derek's arm and hold on tight, like Derek's the only thing keeping him anchored.

They make it up the path to the front door, where they have to pause as Derek realises they have a problem.

"Stiles?" he whispers. "I need your key."

"Oh." Stiles fumbles about for a while, hands darting around and patting various places before he lets out a not-very-muffled giggle. "It's in one of my pockets," he tells Derek in what he evidently believes is a whisper and definitely is _not_ a whisper. "I can't remember which one, you're gonna have to find it."

Derek stares at him for a moment, conjuring up all the sensible reasons why letting his hands roam all over this boy is a terrible idea because Derek knows that once starts he won't be able to stop, but a another porch light down the road is flicked on and he jerks in alarm. Derek gingerly pats at Stiles' coat before he drops his hands down and finds the lump of keys against Stiles' thigh.

"They're here," Derek says hoarsely, but Stiles has both hands buried in Derek's jacket and he looks like if he lets go he'll collapse right where he stands. Derek has to close his eyes for a second because standing like this brings them very close together, brings their mouths very close together, and that's the kind of thing Derek needs to _not_ be thinking about on the Sheriff's front doorstep and while Stiles is drunk.

He pulls in a shaky breath, tries hard to temper his instincts to _take_ and _claim_ and _have_ into something more manageable and slides a hand into Stiles' pocket, which is warm and his leg is firm through his jeans. Derek's finger hooks the loop of the keyring on the first try and he yanks them out, carefully finding the right key and sliding it into the lock before he opens the door and helps Stiles inside.

He pauses in the hallway, seeking out the sound of the Sheriff's heartbeat to make sure it's the regular pulse of sleep before he begins guiding Stiles up the stairs.

It's not as quiet as Derek would like and he makes Stiles stop several times on the way up so he can listen to make sure they're not about to be discovered, but they get to Stiles' room eventually.

Stiles drops onto his bed at once with a contented sigh, not bothering to so much as take off his shoes. Derek hesitates for a moment before he does that himself, placing Stiles' sneakers by the side of the bed and gently setting his keys on the desk, which is littered with old sticky notes and sheets of notebook paper covered in Stiles' untidy scrawl. The information they hold is an odd mix of high school homework and occult research, algebraic equations sharing space with diagrams of harpy anatomy and mistletoe arrows. It's all very _Stiles_.

Derek's picked up a pen before he quite realises he's doing so and he grabs one of the post-its, writing a short note and moving to stick it to Stiles' chest before he makes his escape through the window and hopes he hasn't just made a really stupid call.

* * *

 

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, he's pretty sure that a) someone surgically removed his brain last night to generously replace it with a whole load of scratchy cotton and b) that person also plugged a garden hose into his bladder and turned it on full power.

He lies in bed for a moment and just groans pitifully to himself, regretting _all the things_ before he manages to drag himself upright. The movement disturbs something bright yellow that's been planted on his chest and Stiles glances down at the flutter of movement, plucking the note out of his lap and staring stupidly at it for a few moments.

It's one of his homework reminders but in the empty space someone else has added their own note:

 _**Human trumps were-bear** _ **.**

It takes him a moment to realise and then another moment to process. Stiles gapes at it, stares at the writing, _Derek_ _'_ _s handwriting_ , before it all slams home.

"Oh my _God._ "

Stiles is pretty sure this makes him at _least_ a nine and dammit, fourteens can date nines. Or at least, one particular fourteen is _going_ to date a nine and Stiles is going to make sure of it. He scrambles to grab his phone and fires off a text to Scott that just says, _**we**_ _ **'**_ _ **re 23!!!!!!!**_ before he gives in to the call of the bathroom, his headache suddenly quite forgotten. _Take that, were-bears._

It's good to be human.


End file.
